


I’m All Ears (and I’m All Scars)

by MrSandman



Series: One-Word Prompts [2]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: (and it’s in the past so), (it’s jack so yes and no), (more or less anyway), (sort of), Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Confessions, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Dates, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Past Character Death, Post-Episode: s02e01 Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, Post-The Year that Never Was (Doctor Who), The Year That Never Was (Doctor Who)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27609358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSandman/pseuds/MrSandman
Summary: A conversation about timelines on Ianto and Jack’s first date leads to a series of revelations that Ianto could never have anticipated. Before the night is up, both Jack and Ianto must confront what they have been, what they are, and what they will be, to themselves and to each other.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Series: One-Word Prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041397
Comments: 13
Kudos: 67





	I’m All Ears (and I’m All Scars)

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, this is my take on how Jack and Ianto’s first real date went! (I know there’s a novel about it, but I haven’t read it, so any passing resemblance to it is pure coincidence.) My one-word prompt for this was ‘Backwards’.
> 
> Also, I messed around quite a bit with the timeline, because I wanted Ianto around for the events of Boom Town, even though I know he wasn’t really. Timelines - who needs them, eh?
> 
> Very kindly beta-ed by Nik/princessoftheworlds, who sorted out my many errant commas! 
> 
> Title from The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes by Fall Out Boy.

“Ianto! These are for you.”

Standing on Ianto’s doorstep in a beautifully tailored suit that Ianto hadn’t even known he owned, Jack hands him a bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed red roses. Ianto, who is apparently better-versed in the language of flowers than Jack, ignores any pesky feelings elicited by the precise number of roses, electing instead to smile softly at Jack.

Jack kisses Ianto on the cheek, and Ianto tries and fails to tamp down a blush as he invites Jack in. Shutting the door behind him, he heads to the kitchen to find somewhere to put the flowers, uncovering a dusty vase at the back of a cupboard that he thinks the last tenants must have left behind. He gives it a quick rinse under the tap before filling it with water and setting it aside. Rummaging around in the drawers for a pair of scissors, he reaches for the roses again and cuts the ends of the stems at an angle, like he remembers his mum doing whenever he and Rhi bought her flowers for Mother’s Day. 

Just as Ianto has put the flowers into the vase, he feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist, and Jack presses a kiss to the back of his neck. Ianto turns in Jack’s arms and presses his lips to Jack’s once, twice, three times before slipping out of his grasp to walk over to the door. 

“At least buy me dinner first,” he says over his shoulder, making Jack laugh loudly. He immediately scrambles to catch up with Ianto, watching Ianto put on his coat before belatedly reaching out to help him with it. 

“I am capable of putting my own coat on, you know,” Ianto chastises without any real heat, lightly batting Jack’s hands away as he smooths down the collar of his peacoat. 

“But _Iantooo_ ,” Jack whines playfully, “I’m trying to be _romantic!”_

“Right, and that means dressing me, too,” Ianto deadpans, snorting at Jack’s crestfallen expression and taking hold of his hand. He fishes his keys out of the bowl by the door and then all but drags Jack into the hallway of his building, shutting and locking the door as quietly as possible behind them. 

“But you always help me into _my_ coat,” Jack protests, lacing his fingers between Ianto’s as they walk along the hallway in the direction of the stairs. 

“Yeah, well… that’s different,” Ianto splutters, realising that he’s been caught out. Jack’s grin turns smug, and he swings his and Ianto’s arms between them as they descend the stairs. Ianto sighs but says nothing, allowing Jack a moment of self-congratulation. Quite frankly, it’s nice to see at the moment. Ever since Jack has been back in Cardiff, he’s been different. More fragile somehow. So Ianto is willing to indulge him, if it means seeing him smile unreservedly like he is right now, shooting glances at Ianto every now and then. 

As they reach the lobby and push their way outside, Ianto searches the street for the familiar bulky outline of the SUV and is confused when no such sight is forthcoming. 

“About that,” Jack says, and Ianto turns to see him rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “See, the thing is, I was going to bring the car, but then there was a Rift alert in Bute Park… so I asked Owen and Tosh to drop me off on the way.”

Ianto laughs at Jack’s reluctant admission and pivots on his heel, heading in the direction of the car park. “I’ll bet Owen _loved_ that,” he says, grinning when Jack rolls his eyes at him. 

“You’ve got that right! I won’t hear the end of it for _weeks_ ,” Jack complains, tucking his hand into the crook of Ianto’s elbow as they move towards Ianto’s car. 

“I dare say you won’t,” Ianto replies, raising an eyebrow. “But could we perhaps refrain from spending the entire night talking about our _beloved_ colleagues?” The sarcasm is practically dripping off Ianto’s tone. 

“Of course, Mr Jones, _so_ sorry for directing the attention away from you,” Jack jokes, pretending to doff his cap respectfully; Ianto snorts at the display, and Jack grins at him. He refuses to give Jack the satisfaction of a reply, but he does bend his arm slightly so that Jack’s hand rests a little more comfortably, and Jack’s smile grows impossibly larger. 

***

The meal itself is relatively uneventful by Torchwood’s standards. No sudden extraterrestrial appearances, and Jack is on his very best behaviour for a change, Ianto thinks dryly. There’s not even a Rift alert to interrupt dessert, which Jack insists on sharing, because “it’s _romantic_ , Ianto - c’mon, indulge me!” 

Ianto rolls his eyes but continues to dig into the tiramisù with his own spoon. He had drawn the line at sharing cutlery in polite company, no matter what Jack had promised to do to him later in exchange. (Not that he’s opposed to any of the suggestions, however. His and Jack’s unspoken decision to avoid the dishes with high concentrations of chilli seems like a wise choice indeed.)

But, Ianto has to admit as he and Jack polish off what’s left of their dessert, he has thoroughly enjoyed himself, and it seems like Jack has too. The conversation has flowed, Jack has been just the right side of tactile for public consumption, and Ianto has even found himself laughing at some of Jack’s less appalling jokes. The evening has been, well, _romantic_. Frankly, it’s been more romantic than any other evening the two have ever spent together, especially for what is technically a first date. The phrase feels new and unusual on his metaphorical tongue; it’s certainly not something that the Ianto of a few months ago would ever have expected to utter. 

“We’re really doing this all backwards, aren’t we?” Jack looks positively nonplussed, and Ianto continues his train of thought hastily. “Well, think about it. We’re going on what is arguably our first date, months into… whatever it is that we’re doing.” At this, Ianto flails his hand between the two of them, and Jack laughs uneasily. 

“Yeah, I guess we are, aren’t we?” Jack hesitates, clearly making up his mind about something. How much he is willing to divulge, Ianto presumes, and how much information giving the two of them a shot is worth. “But if you think about it, I’m doing everything backwards really. Or, forwards. Or… Well, you get the picture. Time travel really complicates tenses…” More communicative than cagey tonight, then. This ought to bode well. 

“You’re right,” Ianto smoothly interrupts, aware that Jack could steer them onto a completely different conversational topic in the blink of an eye, scuppering Ianto’s chances of having this conversation for at least several weeks. “Your timeline is all over the place, isn’t it? I mean, we all saw you on the CCTV when that business with the mayor and the power plant happened, despite your efforts to bury the footage and avoid the topic altogether.” Jack at least has the good grace to look sheepish at this. 

“But that wasn’t _our_ you, was it? That was a different you, from some other time,” Ianto muses.

“Ianto Jones,” Jack replies approvingly, “that brain of yours is wasted down in those dusty archives.”

“Certainly not,” Ianto replies primly, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “If you recall, sir, that’s exactly why you hired me as an archivist.”

“Please, Ianto, no honorifics at the dinner table,” Jack complains, and Ianto smirks in response. 

A short silence follows while the two sip their remaining wine, Ianto glancing up every now and then to watch Jack. Occasionally, he finds Jack watching him back. 

After several minutes of this, Ianto bites his lip, trying to steel himself for asking the question that has been on the tip of his tongue ever since Jack showed up unannounced in that suburban living room and indeed in all of their lives.

“Jack,” he begins haltingly, inhaling deeply when Jack’s eyes flick over from where he had been contemplating the contents of his nearly-empty wine glass, a rakish smile forming on his lips. “Where were you?”

Jack’s half-grin freezes on his face, and Ianto’s heart sinks.

“Where was I when?” Jack asks, and Ianto almost imperceptibly rolls his eyes. Maybe not so communicative, then.

“You know exactly what I’m asking,” he replies, and Jack’s face falls for the briefest of moments before arranging itself into an approximation of neutrality.

“Ianto…” Jack trails off, and Ianto can see his jaw working rapidly. He imagines Jack sifting through his extensive collection of platitudes as if they were a set of cue cards, trying to select the best response to mollify his conversational partner while giving absolutely nothing away. 

Ianto’s voice is soft, but the next words out of his mouth are far from it. “Jack, don’t spin me another one of your lines, please. You were with the Doctor for _months_. Considering your timeline and his capacity for space-time travel, it could’ve been even longer for all we know!” 

At this, Jack visibly flinches, and Ianto knows that he’s hit on something.

“You were, weren’t you? You were gone for more than a few months.” Ianto knows that this is a bad idea, knows that he’s at risk of pushing too hard, but he’s so afraid of losing this chance to get some answers, finally. 

Jack’s gaze immediately shutters, and he springs up from his chair, tearing his coat from the back and fishing his wallet out of the pocket while striding determinedly towards the waiter at the till. Ianto hurriedly downs his wine and stands up too, cursing under his breath as he struggles into his coat and checks for his wallet and car keys. 

Ianto is fast, but Jack is faster: by the time Ianto has made it to the till, the door of the restaurant is swinging on its hinges. Ianto stumbles through a quiet ‘thank you, have a good night’ to the waiters and the maître d’ as he hurries after Jack, who is now pacing in front of the restaurant, clenching and unclenching his hands. 

“Jack!” Ianto calls, and Jack turns to face him, his eyes dark. 

“Ianto, _don’t_ ,” Jack cautions, but Ianto can’t help himself, and the words come spilling out. 

“For God’s sake, Jack! I’m your-“ Ianto cuts himself off, unsure how to proceed. “I’m your friend,” he tries, careful with his words, “and I need to know why you left us.” The ‘why you left me’ goes unsaid, but Jack clearly hears it anyway and balls his fist against the cotton blend of his suit trousers. 

“You _really_ want to know where I’ve been, huh?” Jack is speaking through gritted teeth, but his voice is still far too loud for such a public place, and Ianto glances around in alarm. The street is thankfully deserted, but nonetheless he knows that he needs to de-escalate this, or at least redirect it. 

“Jack. I didn’t mean to-“ 

“I’ve been gone for a _year_ , Ianto, give or take a few hours!” Now Jack is shouting, and Ianto buries his shock at the admission for the moment, taking a step forward and placing a tentative hand on Jack’s arm. Jack attempts to shake him off, but Ianto is persistent, taking hold of Jack’s other shoulder and looking into his eyes. 

“Jack, listen to me. This isn’t the place for this conversation. Come back to mine, okay? We can… we can talk there.” The Hub, Ianto assesses, is not the best place for the discussion either, with all its background noise and distractions and uncomfortable associations. Lisa. Opening the Rift. Months on end spent wondering whether Jack would ever come back.

When Ianto comes back to himself, all the anger has drained from Jack’s eyes, replaced with a look so hollow that Ianto is sure he can feel his heart constricting in his chest. Jack is pliable enough now for Ianto to spin him around and gently steer them both in the direction of his car, fishing his keys out of his pocket while manoeuvring an unresisting Jack. 

Jack climbs in without protest, and Ianto starts the car as quickly as the cold night will allow. The drive back to Ianto’s flat is spent in a tense silence, Jack sat completely rigid in his seat and Ianto gripping the steering wheel hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. Better that than allowing an onslaught of questions to start bubbling forth from his treacherous mouth. 

***

Once they make it back to Ianto’s building and stagger through the entrance to his flat, Ianto suddenly feels exhausted. He knows that sleep is not an option, though, and toes off his shoes before heading straight for the coffee machine. 

As the coffee brews, Ianto lets out a breath and tries to brace himself. He has no idea what happened to Jack while he was gone, but whatever it was, Jack hasn’t been the same since. Given this, he also has no idea how Jack will react to recounting his time away. Perhaps he should let Jack lead the conversation? Is Jack even capable of leading the conversation right now, given what Ianto could see in his eyes only a short while ago?

As if on autopilot, Ianto takes out his usual mug and the one that Jack used the few times he came over during Ianto’s suspension all those months ago, pouring each of them a generous cup and carrying them with him. 

He finds Jack still standing in the hall, face impassive and hands fisted in the material of his coat. Ianto’s face softens, and he ducks into the living room to place the mugs down on the coffee table before slipping back out to Jack. He takes hold of Jack’s hands where they’re bunched in the thick woollen material, gently prising his fingers away. Then, he moves behind Jack and slides his hands down over Jack’s broad shoulders and chest, gripping his coat at the lapels and sliding it off him. 

Jack seems to come to his senses a little once he’s been divested of his coat, unlacing his own boots and straightening up slowly. He follows Ianto back into the living room and the two take a seat on the sofa, Jack immediately picking up his mug and taking a gulp of coffee despite it being barely less than boiling. Ianto takes a more measured sip from his own mug, wincing as the hot liquid burns his tongue. They sit holding their mugs, Jack watching the specks of dust dancing in the air and Ianto watching Jack.

“I’m sorry, Ianto,” Jack finally says, making eye contact. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”

“Well, I did bring it up in public,” Ianto admits, scratching his nail across the surface of his mug. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I guess… I guess I was just sick of being fobbed off with yet more half-truths. And I knew- I _thought_ I knew that you couldn’t distract me or storm out on me as easily if we were in a public place.” He shakes his head. “It was wrong to try and force it out of you on my terms, and-“

“Ianto, stop,” Jack interrupts. He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair. “You asking was… beyond reasonable. I know I’m… not exactly forthcoming with information,” - at this, Ianto snorts - “and I know that it makes it hard for you all to trust me. I know that. Part of it is a question of keeping the timelines intact, which believe you me is not exactly a walk in the park.”

Jack laughs quietly, but the sound is laced with some deep-seated pain. Ianto removes one of his hands from where they’re curled around his coffee and tentatively places it on Jack’s knee. Jack shifts slightly, pressing his knee into Ianto’s touch, and Ianto breathes an internal sigh of relief. 

“But…” he prompts softly, knowing that this isn’t the end of the tale. Jack glances down at Ianto’s hand on his knee and back up at Ianto’s face, sighing. 

“But,” Jack echoes, “this couldn’t affect the timelines, because… because it never happened.”

Ianto narrows his eyes in confusion. “Run that by me again,” he says slowly, and Jack laughs again, though it’s more of a rapid, nervous exhalation of breath. Jack, nervous? Ianto is immediately on his guard again.

“The year that I was gone… it didn’t happen in this timeline. We were… I was…” Jack looks away, clearly trying to find the right words like he was earlier, in a very different context indeed. Ianto has no intention of letting that particular conversation slip away either, but it’s no longer a priority. 

“Take your time,” Ianto tells him. “Though I hardly think it’s my place to be ordering you about, sir.” He’s trying for gentle teasing, looking to elicit a smile, but only succeeds in coaxing one corner of Jack’s mouth up for a brief moment. 

“Okay,” Jack says, straightening up a fraction. “Okay. While we were away, me and the Doctor, I mean, and our... friend Martha Jones, we…” He stops again, as if expecting more questions that might help him delay the inevitable, but Ianto doesn’t need to ask them. 

“Oh, I know all about the Doctor. I did work at One, after all. New recruits never got more than five minutes into their initial briefing without the spiel about ‘keeping Earth safe’ from him. We used to bet on exactly when Yvonne would drop that in, down to the minute. I usually won.”

“Of course you did,” Jack replies with a wry smile. Not totally unreachable, then. Ianto quirks an eyebrow at him and motions with his mug for Jack to continue. 

“Yeah, well, the Doctor, Martha and I were actually busy _saving_ the Earth, for your information. That’s why the Doctor couldn’t just tell me I’m _wrong_ and unfixable and send me on my way.” 

Ianto frowns at this. “Jack, you’re… you’re not wrong. Different, yeah, but… not wrong.” Jack meets his gaze briefly but otherwise doesn’t react to this. He swipes a soothing thumb over the side of Jack’s knee, and Jack takes a deep breath before continuing. 

“Yeah, well, while we’re there, an old acquaintance of the Doctor’s turned up, and… it went horribly wrong. We got separated, and… something happened to the Doctor. I was… indisposed, and Martha was our only hope.” 

Jack exhales shakily, and Ianto files “indisposed” away temporarily, squeezing Jack’s knee beneath his hand. 

“An old acquaintance? Does that mean…” Jack nods in confirmation, and Ianto’s eyes widen. “But I thought the Doctor was the last. That’s what Yvonne always told us…”

“So did he,” Jack says glumly, “but he wasn’t counting on his friend… changing himself, changing his biology, and waiting for him at the end of the world.”

Ianto is floored by how casual Jack is able to be about this. “You went to the end of the world?” he exclaims in disbelief, and Jack flinches sharply, coffee slopping over the side of his mug and onto his trouser leg. He doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes suddenly very far away. 

“Shit,” Ianto swears under his breath, quickly putting his own rapidly cooling coffee down and snatching a tissue from the box on the coffee table. He gently sponges the splash of coffee on Jack’s leg before tossing the used tissue onto the table and taking both of Jack’s hands in his. 

“Jack, I’m sorry,” Ianto apologises in a low voice, ducking his head to try and catch Jack’s eye. “I didn’t think. I was just shocked, is all. Are you... do you-”

But Ianto taking hold of his hands seems to have brought Jack back, and he squeezes Ianto’s fingers reassuringly. 

“Sorry, Ianto, I just… for a minute there, it was like I was-” he cuts himself off, frowning. “Never mind. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. So, y’know Harold Saxon?”

“The Prime Minister?” Ianto raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, of course. We were on the way back from the Himalayas when we heard-” He narrows his eyes. “Wait. No. Was he? No way. The Prime Minister-!”

“Yeah,” Jack confirms, “he was. The Master was clever. He manipulated everyone around him, the whole country, even. And then, on board his own _private party airship_ , he built a paradox machine, and he very nearly succeeded in destroying the Earth, changing the future forever.”

“A paradox machine?” Ianto has heard the term before, probably at Torchwood One, he supposes. “Presumably a machine that creates paradoxes?” He raises an eyebrow sardonically, and Jack nods. “And I take it that once the machine was switched off, it undid the paradox, and...”

“Everything reset,” Jack finishes for him. “It was a little more complicated than that - it involved a year of Martha travelling the world, for one thing, and it ended in the Master’s death - but essentially, when I switched off the machine, the entire timeline was wiped out, and only those of us on board remember what happened. That is, once I’d managed to, uh, break out of… ”

“Jack,” Ianto asks carefully, “were you… did they…” Ianto isn’t sure what to ask. He isn’t even sure that he wants to hear the answer. He finally settles on, “What did they do to you?” 

“Oh, me? I was the Master’s personal chew toy.” Jack laughs bitterly, and Ianto swallows, the realisation of what this means hitting him like a truck full of bricks. 

“Jack…” Ianto says, horrified, watching Jack’s eyes take on a hysterical gleam. 

“Well, what do you expect? The minute he realised that I couldn’t die, oh, that made me interesting. And then when he couldn’t make use of me for it-“

“Jack, don’t,” Ianto pleads, lacing his fingers between Jack’s and dragging their joined hands into his lap. He and Jack have moved in closer without either of them noticing, knees pressed together. Ianto can feel Jack’s body heat rolling off him in waves and has to resist the urge to lean in even further, potentially overwhelming Jack. 

“It became his favourite game,” Jack whispers harshly, “‘how many ways can you kill the man who can’t die?’ Well, let’s see: there was shooting, drowning, good old starvation. Disembowelment - that one was especially nasty - and stabbing, poisoning, electrocution-”

“Oh god, Jack, _stop!”_ Ianto is overwhelmed, snapshots of every time he’s seen Jack die flashing before his eyes, joined now by visions upon visions of these new deaths. He stares at Jack, knowing that Jack will be seeing the anguish in his own gaze reflected right back at him. 

Jack squeezes his hands, and after a moment, Ianto squeezes back. “Sorry,” Jack says, “I’m sorry, Ianto. I just… a whole year of that is enough to send anybody over the edge. It feels like I’m just waiting for the drop.” Ianto, at a loss for words, has to stare into space for a moment, trying and failing to process the information that he has just been given. 

“That wasn’t the worst bit,” Jack continues after a minute of silence. Ianto glances over at Jack and sees that tears have started to form in his eyes, hanging onto his lashes for dear life.

“Worse than that?” Ianto says in disbelief. Jack nods. 

“Remember your trip to the Himalayas?” Though it seems like a non sequitur, Ianto nods in response, gears whirring in his brain. 

“Yeah, we were told that another Rift had opened up… by…” 

“Exactly.” The set of Jack’s mouth is grim, jaw clenched and lips pressed so tightly together that they almost disappear. It’s as if he can’t quite bring himself to say anything else, as if he’s pressing his lips together in the hope of sealing them shut. The tears are still stubbornly clinging to his lashes. 

“So it was the Master, as Saxon, who sent us to the Himalayas,” Ianto states, and frowns. “But it was a wild goose chase, we didn’t find anything.”

“In _this_ timeline, yeah,” Jack counters, the words muffled by his gritted teeth. “But in the timeline I lived through…”

“Oh god,” Ianto says dully, eyes widening in realisation. “We… died, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Jack whispers hollowly as the first tear abandons his lashes and rolls down his cheek. “You all died.” 

“And did you-”

“Oh, the Master made sure that I knew,” Jack interrupts shakily. Ianto is rigid in his seat, clutching at Jack’s hands like a lifeline despite both men’s sweaty palms. “I saw every second of it, Ianto. Every excruciating second. And he made me watch it, over and over, until I was _begging_ him to kill me, just for a few minutes of oblivion.”

Ianto doesn’t know how to respond. How is one supposed to react to the knowledge that, in an alternate timeline, they died what sounds like a horrible and painful death? And so they sit there, Jack’s thumb stroking across Ianto’s knuckles, as if to reassure himself that Ianto is there with him. 

“Seeing you die, Ianto… Seeing all of you die…” Jack’s voice is no more than a whisper now. “It broke me, somewhere deep inside. Knowing that I’d failed to keep you all safe, that I’d _lost_ you all-” 

Jack breaks off, the rest of his tears following the path of the first breakaway droplet down his face. Ianto lets go of Jack’s hands to pull him in, holding Jack’s face against his shoulder as his other arm wraps around Jack’s waist. 

“Oh, Jack…” he whispers into Jack’s hair, moving his thumb in soothing circles at the nape of Jack’s neck. They sit there for a while, Ianto cradling Jack more tenderly perhaps than he ever has before, listening to Jack’s quiet gasps into his shoulder. 

***

Eventually, the gasps die down to sighs, and Ianto pulls back just enough to see that Jack’s eyes are closed, his nose pressed to the hollow where Ianto’s throat meets his collarbone. He catches a stray tear with his thumb, and Jack’s eyelashes flutter. 

“Come to bed,” Ianto murmurs, and Jack sits up suddenly, almost throwing the two of them off balance. Ianto catches Jack’s shoulder with his free hand, his other still wrapped firmly around Jack’s waist.

“Not like that,” he says gently, “just to sleep.” At Jack’s bleary-eyed but indignant look, he laughs softly. “Case in point. Even you have to sleep sometimes, sir.”

“No honorifics at the coffee table,” Jack mutters, echoing his words from earlier, and Ianto laughs again, a relieved smile growing on his face. 

The two stumble up from the sofa, and Ianto takes Jack’s hand, glancing down at their intertwined fingers and back up at Jack. 

“Come to bed,” Ianto says again, and Jack nods, letting Ianto lead him into the bedroom. Once inside, Ianto stands facing Jack, where he can see Ianto, and gently slides Jack’s braces off his shoulders. He sets to work unbuttoning Jack’s shirt, gently running his thumb over each new exposed patch of skin before moving to the next button. 

Tugging the now-unbuttoned shirt free of Jack’s trousers, he pushes it off Jack’s shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. He considers picking it up and folding it but decides against it, reasoning that Jack wouldn’t bother, and it’s hardly high on his list of current priorities. 

While he’s been contemplating the shirt, Jack has pulled off his white undershirt. Ianto wonders at Jack’s desire to be so uncovered after revealing so much, before realising that the feeling of soft sheets and Ianto’s skin is probably exactly what Jack needs at this moment. 

Breaking out of his reverie, Ianto swiftly but carefully undoes Jack’s trousers, waiting for Jack to step out of them. Jack allows Ianto to lead him over to the bed and gently push Jack down until he’s sitting on the edge. Ianto kneels, lifting Jack’s right foot, then his left, taking off his socks as he goes. 

With Jack suitably undressed, Ianto stands up, quickly removing his socks, suit jacket, waistcoat, tie, shirt and trousers in quick succession. He leaves everything draped carefully over the back of the chair, resolving to hang them up in the morning to avoid them creasing too badly. Turning to the bed, he sees that Jack has slid under the covers, propped against the headboard and watching Ianto with a neutral expression but a suspicious twinkle in his eye. 

“Now, now,” Ianto teases, “just sleeping, remember.” Jack nods faux-contritely, and Ianto snorts, turning off the light and walking back over to the bed to slip under the duvet alongside Jack. He sets his head on the pillow and tugs Jack down alongside him, tangling their legs together when Jack has stretched out and burrowed under the covers. 

Ianto gently takes hold of Jack’s hips and reels him in until their faces are only inches apart; he could make out all the flecks of colour in Jack’s eyes, if the room were lit by more than just a sliver of moonlight breaking through the curtains. He wraps his arms more securely around Jack’s waist, and Jack sighs contentedly, his own hands coming to rest atop Ianto’s arms. 

“Everything’s backwards again,” Ianto says wryly, “but this time it’s not the fault of the timelines.” He doesn’t say it aloud, but thinks to himself, _it’s always been Jack holding me. Now, it’s me holding Jack._

Jack doesn’t say a word, but his eyes soften, and Ianto knows that somehow Jack knows exactly what he meant. 

“What are we doing, Jack?” Ianto asks as Jack stares back at him unblinkingly. 

A pause. 

Ianto is about to focus his attention elsewhere, sure that Jack won’t answer, when Jack starts speaking, clears his throat, and tries again. 

“I don’t know, Ianto. But I do know that seeing you… y’know… well, it put some things into perspective.”

“Like what?” Ianto reaches up to stroke along the line of Jack’s cheekbone, and Jack closes his eyes, turning his face into Ianto’s touch until Ianto is cradling his jaw. 

“Like… us,” Jack replies, opening his eyes and looking at Ianto again. “Like the fact that I’ve never really given the possibility of _us_ a chance. But I want to,” he continues as Ianto opens his mouth to protest that he hadn’t exactly allowed for the possibility of anything more before Jack’s absence, either. 

“You’re not going to leave again,” Ianto says, more of a statement than a question, and Jack shakes his head, dislodging Ianto’s hand. It finds its way to Jack’s chest, coming to rest over his heart. 

“Then… so do I,” Ianto says, quiet but fervent, and seals the deal with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> NB: Giving someone a dozen red roses signifies a declaration of love and passion. Jack evidently knows about the passion part, but perhaps not the love part… (AKA, the idea of Jack not knowing the language of flowers despite living through much of the Victorian Edwardian eras, i.e. the height of flower language popularity, is utterly hilarious. Ianto then being the one who inevitably notices the significance of the number sold it for me!)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feel free to drop by and say hi on twitter (@hetheyharkness) or tumblr (kingisdead), should you so desire it! Comments, kudos etc. are very much appreciated! Have a great day :D


End file.
